|SAROJ RANJAN MOHANTY
THE SORROW OF THE PAPER BOAT
Who would believe the sravana rains,
and why ? It would arrive suddenly
like an untimely guest,
in your garden someday, at your courtyard,
using your blind moments.
And yet again, pushing open your windows,
it would enter your room,
wetting your books, your bed,
manuscripts of verse and memory,
and of course, you.
It would bring back
the fading memories of the world;
it would make you remember things
that you might have forgotten,
plundering away your sense of peace
and then you, lonely and poor,
would be thinking once more
about the lost splendours of the yesterdays.
Sravana would give you once more
the agony of injured manhood,
of loss and defeat.
It would gather together
at the end of your pen the griefs
you may have already forgotten;
the last shreds of a story of grief
that is still incomplete.
It would remind you
of your dear one's vain efforts
to hold in her pallava
the music of the sravana rains;
and when you attempt to draw
the picture of phalguna around her,
your brush would find only the thorny cactus.
The rains of the early ashadha
the season of Ramagiri-loneliness.
Sravana is the time of murdered love,
of wounds and loss,
the season that leaves you
empty and blood-besmeared.
And the voice of sravana
a choric sigh of accumulated grief
that plays among the Ramagiris.
Sravana would arrive
and with the pride of a conqueror,disappear,
like a cruel, heartless lover
offering you only the gift of grief.
And after its exit,
you would be floating
on the restless surface of its tormenting sea
like a paper boat, miserable.